


Not a Toy

by gracefulally



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-08
Updated: 2006-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefulally/pseuds/gracefulally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John leaves for a hunt, he leaves a twelve-year old Dean to take care of Sam. This time though, the worried and always paranoid father leaves his oldest with a little something extra to handle things that go bump in the night. Inspired by Sam's allusion to his age 9 experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Toy

“Who do you open the door for?”

“Nobody.”

“And if they try to break in?”

“Hide.”

“If Sammy sees something?”

“There’s salt on the lamp table.”

John closed the snaps on a tattered brown bag that was on the table before him and pressed his hands to the wood surface. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh as though pondering a difficult decision. In the middle of the lackluster motel room, a young Dean sat quietly on the queen-sized bed rapt with attention to his father’s back as the television played a kaleidoscope of colors across his face.

Almost daily they went through the same long series of twenty or so questions. Where his dad went, Dean didn’t know, but he did know that it was important that he closely follow orders and protect his brother. Other kids watched _Sesame Street_ and played with action figures. Dean learned how to survive.

“Come here, Dean,” John said quietly over his shoulder.

Dean slid off the edge of the forest green blanket and obediently approached his father. Bending down to be level with his boy, John glanced to check on Sam who was snoring softly with a thumb curled in his mouth on the bed that Dean had just departed. He then turned an apologetic gaze on his oldest and ruffled the boy’s mop of light brown hair, causing a hiss of protest.

Though he laughed lightly at Dean’s soured pout, the sparkle in John’s dark eyes was fleeting. “I’m going to be gone an extra day this time, Dean.” The young boy’s expression was solemn, but he didn’t dispute what he had been told.

“There’s some people not far from here,” John explained as he took his son’s hand. “They need my help.”

John reached to pull something from beneath his jacket, a metallic glint in the light of the television adverted Dean’s attention from his father’s face to the newly brandished object. The twelve-year-old’s breath stalled and his eyes widened as cool metal was pressed into his warm palm. Large rough fingers tightened around the tiny hand to keep the pistol aimed at the floor.

“Look at me, Dean,” John ordered gently.

A face filled with confusion lifted slowly as Dean peeled his eyes from the weapon.

“You’ve seen one of these before.”

“A gun?” the boy tried earnestly. The father’s brow creased.

“Not just any gun, Dean. It’s a .45.”

“Yes, Daddy,” the boy replied quietly. He remembered this one now. Multiple weapons and tools passed through Dean’s young hands lately. For this one his dad had taken him to practice shooting at empty milk jugs in the woods on a Saturday when they were still in Arkansas. Sammy had slept in the car.

John rested his free hand on the child’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “What do you do with it?”

“P-pull the trigger if something tries to hurt us,” Dean stammered, repeating what he had been told numerous times.

“After you turn off the safety.” Calloused fingertips guided Dean’s thumb instructively. The little boy’s head bobbed in understanding.

A single scrubbed-raw finger moved to lift the tiny cleft of the child’s chin. “And what should you never use it for?” John asked, his stern voice deepening.

“A toy.”

The weight of the gun pulled Dean’s short frame to the right when John released the barrel. Rising back to his feet, John slung the brown bag over his shoulder and retrieved a shotgun from the nearby dresser.

After he glanced to the tiny Sam-shaped heap on the bed once more, John gave his oldest a half-smile. “You take care of Sammy, okay?” It was the question he always asked right before the door closed and locked behind him, before Dean was left to take charge of his brother.

Dean’s eyes went from his father, to the pistol, to Sam and back again. He knew their guns were meant for creatures and not humans, but it still startled him to be left holding one. Not only that, but Dean was scared. He was scared about what could want to hurt him or Sammy, scared that he would have to use the gun when his dad wasn’t there to encourage him, and scared that the others on the street were speaking truth in their hurried whispers as they passed. That his dad was crazy.

The questions were kindling and Dad was the only one who could answer them.

Swallowing uneasily, Dean lifted his eyes to his father’s once more. “Okay,” he said quietly with a nod.


End file.
